Moribund
by Kickthestickz
Summary: He would not admit defeat in front of this thing. This thing which would perch itself, closer and closer, to his form, mocking him with its impure thoughts. He would not be judged by an unholy being.


Moribund

_"It is always by way of pain one arrives at pleasure."_

- Marquis de Sade

It was a foolish notion, a clichéd notion. To fall in love with death. Could one be caged in, bound in chains, trapped behind bars and stripped naked while still being truly free? He was no sadist. Pain was always something he had shielded away from, something he had no problem dealing out but could never handle when passed back. Yes, it was no stranger in his home. It laughed its way up the stairs, echoed down the halls and whispered sweet nothings under his bedroom door at nightfall. He would know if it was pain that had wrapped itself so tightly around his bones, buried itself into his marrow and stretched apart his ribcage. The ache that left him awake, strewn across the satin covers at night, drenched in his own sweat, crying out to a God he knew had forsaken him long ago, was by no means painful. It was delightful. It suckled at his very centre, pouring pleasure from every orifice it could find, forcing him into a confused frenzy of lust and fear. And those eyes. God. Those eyes. They would watch him; glowing crimson like the very pits of damnation the beast had crawled out of. He could see the mirth in them, reflecting his tortured body, eating him alive. He would reach for them sometimes, a silent beg to be saved. But he could never bring himself to say its name, to beckon the demon nearer. He would not admit defeat in front of this thing. This thing which would perch itself, closer and closer, to his form, mocking him with its impure thoughts. He would not be judged by an unholy being. A tainted form in the darkness. It held little power over him. So then why couldn't he bring himself to order it away? It would go, he knew it would leave, open the door and never return, if he said the words. Perhaps it was the knowing that no matter how far away he sent it, it would always return. _I will be your knight, your shield; I will never leave your side until the time comes that I will devour your soul_. It taunted him, held their contract over his head like the sword of Damocles that it was. The string would snap, the spider web would fall and he would be standing directly underneath.

He would call its name sometimes and, no matter where in the manor it was, it would appear. Sometimes he did it out of spite. Beckon it near and then send it away again just to watch the hatred swarm in those ruby pools, softly glowing before settling back down when control had been regained. "Did you need something, my lord?" "No nothing. You may return to your duties." Good. The more it loathed him the easier it would become to put these adolescent feelings to rest. The more its loathing grew the more he knew it would never guess the estranged pullings' inside of him. Of course he had researched it. He had spent many hours in the library, looking through books, searching for anything on the occult. Could demons read minds? Could a demon eat the soul before a contract was completed? Could a demon love? The answers he knew already, but there had to be a loop hole. He didn't want to wait until night to feel the eyes of carnal sin coarse over his body; he didn't want to play the waiting game until it pulled him further from redemption. He didn't want to fall into its arms, where he knew he belonged. To belong was to fit in, and he would not lower himself to fit in with an animal. He would not fall prey to its elegant talons as it reached for him, as it came for him and tempted him. It could promise him everything. It had. But he would not be victim to its games. He would not let his own pawn control its king. It was his throne, whether it was built on the stones of time and knowledge or on the bodies of his loved ones. He would always sit atop it. But, even then he knew, he may sit on any chair he wanted, but it would not be his own doing. It would never be his actions that put him atop his pedestal. He had never moved his king into play, had never needed to. On the board of all white, it was his black knight who had conquered all the opposing players. It was his black knight who had smashed its way through bishops and rooks, took down the queens and kings, and it was it that pushed the king into checkmate. Not once had he crawled off atop his throne to defend himself. And the creature knew it just as well. It knew it before he did, before they had mixed their blood, before it had tainted his eye and he its hand with the markings of Satan. It had planned all of this, controlled everything from the start.

The first time he had let himself slip it was all in reverse. It had started with him nearly falling down the grand staircase while trying to absently tie his own eye patch. He was getting old enough to do these things by himself dammit. Missing a step he had stumbled, braced himself for the crash and fall that never came. Instead he felt an immense burning, as though he was on fire, and he couldn't breathe. He was going to be sick. Hands had wrapped themselves around him and pulled him backwards into a standing position, braced against its heaving chest. Was it as startled as he was? Or was it all just him, was he hyperventilating? He needed out. Whipping himself around and breaking the clasped lock of fingers, he sent the palm of his hand flying through the air and with a resonating crack it collided with his target. "Don't touch me. Don't you ever touch me." "Young master, you fell, I was merely prevent-"Sending a glare he promptly cut the demon off. He didn't want to hear its soft voice. The voice he knew had lured countless women into its bed. The voice it had used to ensnare him in its lies. It was full of nothing but deceit and he knew it. The next thing he knew, it had had the audacity to raise its voice at him, lecturing him. This was a fight he could win. Raising his own voice he shouted back until they had dropped all formality's and had instead begun to act out of pure malice. Both tired of being seen as inferior. He knew if would have happened eventually. The thing could, after all, break his neck so fast it would take him minutes to realise what had happened. So really it shouldn't have been such a surprise when he found himself thrown into the back wall, cracking the plaster and denting the portrait that had caused a sick snap throughout his back. He just stared as he watched its face distort, the maroon eyes blazing, gleaming, red and staring through him, alighting his own right eye, their contract glowing bright. Its fangs came out, saliva stringing to the sharpened teeth that growled at him, screaming empty threats of devouring his soul then and there. Ripping apart the other servants and burning down the only place he'd ever known. Its depictions getting bloodier and grotesque describing to him horrors he had only dreamt of, horrors he could only encounter in hell. As soon as the words had come, they had ceased. It was panting, visibly panting, puffing clouds of hot air into the space between them. He must have betrayed himself, he must have let something slip onto his face, because the next thing he knew its eyes had widened and it had momentarily stepped back, letting the smaller body slip somewhat down the wall. Then it was upon him. His mouth forced open as the black stench of sin crawled down his throat to fill his lungs. He was surely damned now. One day, he knew, it would be a kiss, just like this one, that would suck the very soul out of him, which would drain him of life without a second though. He would be executed by the only thing he had ever loved. This man would spell his doom.

A/N: Dont own :] This is my first story so criticisms are greatly appreciated. Thanks!


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